First Temptation (15 page)

Aurora leaned in and hugged Taft as if they knew each other. He pulled a Glock nine and a baggy of other equipment from her purse before releasing her.

“Did you get the women's restroom stocked?” Taft asked.

“Good to go,” Aurora said and wrapped her arm in Alex's before wandering off.

With a sense of control trickling in, Taft pressed his hands against the railing to watch Zoe.

Her dress was deep gold, the fabric soft and shimmery. A sequenced design embellished the straps and bodice, fading into the skirt. The fabric hugged every curve of her body. The deep neckline exposed every inch of Zoe's lickable cleavage, clearly delineating the bare, inner curves of her plump breasts. The fabric made one twist at the waist, creating soft ripples over the bodice and down the barely there skirt. Sparkling four-inch heels strapped around her ankles, completing the perfect clubbing outfit. If Taft hadn't known her and walked into a club where she'd been, he'd have homed in and spent all night trying to score.

She was, quite simply, hot shit, and Taft was never even tempted to let his gaze stray to the other beautiful women in the club.

The song ended, and Picasso took Zoe's hand, leading her back to the bar. Taft moved that direction, and when she caught sight of him, the tension in her eyes faded. A smile of relief turned her mouth.

And Taft's heart folded.

He sat at a table nearby until Picasso gestured for him to come over.

Taft couldn't tear his eyes from Zoe's as he approached.

“Take Brooks for a spin, Walker.” Picasso gestured to the dance floor. “Warm her up. Then we'll head toward the back.”

Toward the back meant the first phase of interaction. Foreplay. Touching. Kissing. Lap dances. Picasso had a private room reserved for sex. One with a pole installed. One the team would raid once they were there, secured, and either Zoe or Taft had placed the tracker.

Taft held out his hand to Zoe and walked her to the dance floor. Selena Gomez's sexy voice spilled over them with innuendos about open invitations and addictions.

Taft pulled Zoe into his arms and up against his body. She moaned softly, and Taft buried his face in her neck, opened his mouth over her skin, and sucked. Her hands closed around the strands of his hair, and a sound of longing came from her throat. She pressed her hips into him, rubbing his erection.

“Zoe,” he growled.

“You feel so good. I hate being touched by someone else.”

His belly caught fire and his chest tightened. He lifted his head and looked down into her eyes while moving her toward a dark corner of the busy dance floor. The music created an upbeat, sexy background Taft would have liked swirling around them while he did other things with Zoe. While he tasted her and touched her and pleasured her until she cried out the way she had the night before.

Selena kept repeating “come and get it”, and, unable to stay away, Taft lowered his mouth to Zoe's, just a gentle touch. But she was hungry. And he couldn't resist her. He accepted her tongue, tasted her back, suckled her ripe lower lip, then her upper.

She backed him against the wall and stroked his erection through his slacks. Shock blasted through him along with a searing dose of lust. Holy shit, that was hot.

But-wrong place, wrong time, wrong company.

He grabbed her wrist. “Zoe.”

He pulled his head up to escape her mouth and scanned the area. Picasso was there, standing on the edge of the shadows, his gaze steady on them.

“I'm sorry,” she said, staring at his chest, rubbing her forehead. “I…shouldn't have done that.”

He was glad she had. It gave him hope.

“Picasso's watching,” Taft said.

“He says he likes our chemistry. We remind him of him and his wife.”

“Has he told you want he wants? I can't get a read on him, and I don't want you alone with him.”

“We've been over this…” She dropped her hand against his chest. “Taft, I didn't mean to give you mixed messages. I just got caught up-”

No, they weren't going back to this. His fingers tightened around her wrist, and she gasped. “That hurts.”

“Was Cody competent?”

She drew a breath. Hurt dulled some of the heat in her eyes. “Of course he was. What-?”

“Looking back, if there was a way to do things differently, a way you could have helped him, would you have done it?”

“You know I would have. His death didn't have anything to do with his competence.”

“Exactly.” He held her jaw and willed her to understand. “Me wanting to help you isn't any different.”

ZOE’S HEART CRACKED OPEN, but fear kept her from falling completely head over heels for Taft.

She knew all about words. She'd had plenty of experience with people saying one thing when they'd believed another. The way her father would swear he loved her just the way she was, then try to mold her into something different. Brent's assurances of how much he cared for her, only to betray her in the worst way. The tens of thousands of immigrants who crossed the border with lies designed to hook Zoe's sympathy.

Words were easy.

She twisted her wrist, and he finally loosened his fingers. “No, he hasn't said.”

The song transitioned into something faster. Taft searched her eyes with so much emotion, she couldn't begin to read it all.

“Stick with me, Zoe,” he whispered. “We'll make this work.” He took her hand and led her toward the bar.

Zoe didn't know if he meant their relationship or the operation. But she could only focus on one when she reached Picasso again. He was speaking with one of the bodyguards and turned away just as she and Taft reached them. The guard stepped away but stayed close.

Picasso ignored Taft completely. His gaze never left Zoe's face as he reached out for her hand. “I'd like to go to the room now, señorita.”

She forced a smile, but something about the way he didn't acknowledge Taft gnawed in her gut. “Of course. I'd like to stop at the restroom on our way.”

He nodded.

Zoe didn't have to look at Taft to know he was tense as well. She could feel it rolling off him in waves. With Picasso's arm tight at her lower back, they proceeded through the club, one bodyguard ahead, Taft behind, and two other bodyguards following.

Taft was right. Zoe wasn't
feeling good
about this either. She glanced over her shoulder and met Taft's eyes. Didn't like the uneasiness there.

They passed along the edge of another area of the club where couples or threesomes had found their own space and were busily exploring each other, everyone in various states of undress. No privacy existed. The arrangements consisted of single padded chairs and vinyl benches in one open room. The moans, groans, cries, and screams seemed to cling to her as they continued past. She searched for the restroom at the base of the spiral staircase and excused herself. When she found the bathroom empty, Zoe took a moment.

She pressed her hands flat against the cool counter and took several slow, steady breaths, trying to calm her mind. “I can do this.”

The small toiletry bag was taped on the underside of the third toilet tank lid, as promised, complete with weapon, zip ties, cell phone, tracker, and pen-size stun gun. Her hands were shaking when she strapped the weapon high on her inner thigh with the Velcro provided, tucked the tracker into the waistband of her panties, and stuffed everything else in her tiny purse.

She flushed the toilet to make some noise, then washed and dried her hands.

When she came out, a tense silence hung over the five men. One look at Taft and Zoe's nerves strung tight again. Picasso seemed on edge as well, but he smiled and slid his arm around her as he had all night and led her toward the circular stairway.

On the second floor, they were far more isolated. While the noise from downstairs thumped through the floor and walls, no one roamed, including the other agents.

“Here we are,” Picasso said.

He leaned forward and opened the door, letting it swing wide. The room beyond was lavish and modern with a large bed and a Jacuzzi tub in the corner. Zoe swallowed and reminded herself she wasn't really going to have sex with this man.

“Brooks, cariño.” The way he spoke to her there in the hallway instead of going into the room set off warning bells. “I'd like to have a little bit of time alone with you.”

Before she could speak, he'd turned to Taft. “Just for the dancing, Walker. Then you may come back, si?”

Taft's gaze held on Zoe. “Brooks is a little nervous.”

“I'd be far more…loose and fun…if he was here,” Zoe said, stroking Picasso's arm. When the man frowned down at her hand, she pulled it back and darted a look at Taft.

He stepped forward. “We agreed Brooks would get to choose.”

The door to the next room opened, and a beautiful Asian woman hovered in the doorway. She wore a formfitting, short red dress, had legs that went forever, and perfect porcelain skin. A demure but enticing smile lifted her mouth, painted the same color as her dress.

“I've secured you a room right here, and some company as well,” Picasso said. “I'll simply knock on the door adjoining our rooms when we'd like you to join us.”

Zoe felt control slipping away as if the floor swayed beneath her. “I'd really like Walker-”

“Brooks made her choice,” Taft said.

“I'm sorry,” Picasso said as the bodyguards closed in on Taft. One drew a weapon but held it down. Zoe gasped. “I must insist.”

The change in Taft was immediate and fierce. His entire persona seemed to go rock hard-expression, body, tone, presence. “Picasso-”

Zoe lunged toward him and pressed a hand to his chest. “Shh, baby.” His gaze pried away from Picasso and landed on hers. A sliver of fear lived there now. She shook her head. “It's okay. Just a dance, baby. I can handle that. You know I can.”

His breath came faster. Fear burned brighter.

“Walker.” She put a touch of steel in her voice. “You know I can.”

Please, please, please believe in me.

His fear turned to terror. He swallowed, the movement of his throat rough, and gave one small nod. He lifted his hand to her face and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Of course you can. I know that.”

Picasso closed and locked the door behind Zoe, but the sight of the guard raising his gun at Taft's back as he gestured him toward the room next door burned in her memory.

She had to make this work.

Zoe spun toward Picasso with her best smile. “Do you have a music preference?” She glanced around in search of a sound system or radio. “I can dance to just about anything. I can even dance to silence if you prefer-”

“No dancing.”

With her back to Picasso, Zoe froze. Her eyes closed. Her heart took off racing.
Breathe. Slow down.
She turned back, tilted her head. “You changed your mind? That's fine. I'll get Walker-”

“And no Walker. I don't trust him.”

“
What?
” She frowned and dropped her hands. “Why not?”

“A man is always unpredictable around a woman he loves.” Picasso's face compressed in the first real frown Zoe had seen. A different side of the man was coming out. Not a surprise. She'd seen this happen time and again with suspects-wearing one face when they wanted one thing, putting on another face when the tables had turned. He jerked a finger between Zoe and the room next door, where Taft was presumably being kept. “I thought that was against policy.”

An icy chill slid over Zoe's cheeks. Spread down into her neck. She forced a laugh and a shrug. “I don't think places like this have a lot of policy, if you know what I mean.”

Picasso stood between Zoe and the door and pulled a Beretta forty from the back of his slacks beneath his blazer. “I don't have a lot of time. So I'm going to be straight.”

Zoe swallowed. All she could think about was Taft. “I prefer straight.”

“I know you are Supervisory Agent Zoe Brooks of US Customs and Border Protection.”

The base of Zoe's spine blasted with heat, then went ice cold. Her mind darted to the tracker. But she couldn't trigger it and signal the team to retrieve her, because she didn't know where Walker was or in what kind of danger.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, looking at him like he'd gone crazy. She put up both hands in a stand-off gesture. “I think that bartender put something in your drink.”

“I know that you lead a team of agents who have taken over thirty billion dollars' worth of drugs from the Diablos. Drugs that should have gone to Cantos.”

Her gun lay heavy against her thigh, but she wouldn't reach it before he shot her.

She gestured to herself. “Look at me. I couldn't possibly…do whatever it is you just said. I don't even know what it means. Listen, let's just all go home and forget this happened-”

“And I know you are
perra blanca
.”

Twelve

TAFT SECURED THE WOMAN’S HANDS with the zip-tie cuffs and checked the gag’s security one more time.

The woman tried another muffled, “Why are you doing this?”

He ignored her. He’d already tried reasoning, but of course that hadn’t worked.

There was no adjoining door to the room Zoe was in with Picasso and there was at least one, probably two, gorillas outside the main door. The same gorillas who’d taken his Glock and his cell. Luckily, they hadn’t found his ankle holster with his Browning. Dumb asses.